In Silence
by MyLittleYellowBird
Summary: A companion piece to "The Thing That Matters," this is an exploration of the time between the dreadful adoption interview and Patrick and Shelagh's reconciliation. Will Patrick find the answers he needs in silence? Originally published on my eponymous Wordpress blog. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

I watched Timothy cross the schoolyard, his back to me. I know I hadn't given him the answers he wanted, but I didn't know them myself. Our world was off kilter again, and just as before, I had failed him.

This time, it wasn't a late arrival to a pageant or a forgotten lunch. I closed my eyes to shut out the image of the letter from the agency in Shelagh's hands. Not now. There was a full day of calls and appointments ahead of me.

Instead, I concentrated on the streets in front of me. Poplar had been my home for so long that it was as much a part of me as anything. I belonged here, right now, not in any time past. I knew these people, had been there at the most important moments of their lives, and knew I was doing good work.

I pulled up to a shabby red brick building alongside the railyards, a regular weekly stop for years now. I reached into the backseat for my medical case and saw a bright blue piece of silk peeping out from underneath the seat.

My hands clenched around the bag's handle. I didn't have to press the scarf to my face to feel the softness of the skin it caressed or to breathe in her scent. Blood pounded in my ears and I closed my eyes, trying to regain my composure.

"You okay, then, Doc?" a voice called to me.

I turned to the entrance and saw the weather-worn face of my patient. John Hawkins had spent a lifetime moving the engines that transported goods off the docks and had little to show for his years of service but a mangy flat and a sparse pension. I was never quite sure how he and his wife managed, but there was never a complaint from either of them.

"I'm quite well, thank you, Mr. Hawkins." I turned from the car and followed him into the building.

"I reckon by the way ya slammed yer door maybe not as well as all that."

I gestured to the stairs. "Shall we go up to your room?"

"Nah, no secrets here. It's just me angina, nothin' the missus ain't seen before."

"Nothin' the missus wants to see again, neither!" called out his wife. I smiled at that. Mrs. Hawkins joined us, slowly moving from the kitchen, her hands wrapped in a hot tea towel for relief from her arthritis. I'd try to take a look at that before I left.

Mr. Hawkins opened his shirt and waited patiently for me to get my stethoscope and blood pressure cuff in place.

"How are you feeling?" I asked. His arm was thick and covered with tattoos, the type Tim would stare at for hours if I let him. "Any new troubles?"

"Oh, well enough," the old man answered. Judging by the pressure I was hearing, I had my doubts about that. It never failed to surprise me which of my patients complained the least.

"Your pressure's a bit higher than I'd like, Mr. Hawkins. Have you been taking those walks like I suggested?" I removed the cuff and moved to his back. "Your heart rate's a bit fast, as well."

"John an' me go up and down the lines every day together, don't we love?" Mrs. Hawkins answered.

"Best part of the afternoon, innit?" The old couple shared a smile. "Together over sixty years now, Doc."

"Ever since you started following me around the shop I used to work in. Wouldn't leave me be from the very start," Mrs. Hawkins confided, her cheeks a bit rosy. Shelagh's cheeks pinkened like that.

"That's right. Chased you 'til I let ya catch me, dinn't I?"

I laughed as I stowed my gear into the bag. "Right. Everything sounds as it should, all things considered. I'd like to take a look at your hands if I may, Mrs. Hawkins."

She backed away a bit. "Oh, no, Doctor. It's just a bit o' the same. Nothing a warm towel won't take care of. Oh, that's the kettle. You have a good day today, Dr. Turner." She very deliberately caught her husband's eye, gave him a look, and turned into the kitchen.

Curious, I peered at her husband. The old man suddenly seemed a bit awkward. "Is there something you wanted to tell me, Mr. Hawkins?"

He turned away from me and began to stuff his pipe. "There was one thing. Me and the missus, we-we were wondering...You said I had to take things easy-like, no strenuous activity."

"Yes. It won't do to put too much pressure on your heart, Mr. Hawkins."

I watched him fidget with his pipe and attempted to understand what he was trying to say. "Is there something you're concerned about?" I asked.

"Well, we were thinking, maybe it would be alright if we…" His eyes glanced nervously towards the back of the flat. Swallowing loudly, he blurted out, "We was wonderin' about marital activity if you see what I mean."

In twenty-five years of medical practice, I had heard more about the human experience than most people could ever imagine. After a moment of surprise, I cleared my throat. "You're concerned it might cause an attack?"

"Yes. But Hildy and me, we ain't- _you know_ -in quite a while, and I have to tell ya doc, it ain't good for married folk to completely cut off the supply lines. So we wanted to ask ya if maybe, if we were all kinds of careful, we might give it a go."

It wasn't an unreasonable fear. Mr. Hawkins was eighty-seven, and his wife wasn't too far behind. "Have you discussed the possible consequences?" I asked.

"If ya mean, have I made sure my pension'll go to Hildy if I kick off, then yes. We're no fools, Doc. We know we've been lucky to 've lasted this long. We'd just like to spend our last times as close as we always was."

I considered for a moment, then stepped closer to the old husband. "As long as you're both aware, I'd have to say-" I lowered my voice- "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

He looked up at me then, a spark in his eye. "That's right, Doc. I knew you was a right 'un. An old romantic, just like me!" He laughed as he clapped my shoulder, not so eager for my company now that medical permission had been granted. In a moment, I was on the other side of his front door.

I had to laugh as I walked back to my car. The old couple's enthusiasm for each other was an inspiration. I couldn't wait to share this tale with Shelagh tonight, after Tim had gone to bed and it was just us two. Her cheeks would slowly flush as she struggled to master her initial embarrassment, and then her eyes would grow big, a bold spark shining out.

The door creaked slightly as I stowed my medical case in the backseat. Again, the bright silk scarf caught my eye. A flood of images passed suddenly before my eyes and I remembered. I wouldn't tell Shelagh this tale tonight.

I couldn't tell her of this old pair, content with what they had, happy to spend their remaining time sharing all they could. I couldn't tell her how, after nearly sixty years together, they still longed for the other's touch. Since our dreadful hour, there had been no more than duty kisses between us.

It was temporary, I knew. Eventually, Shelagh and I would begin to talk around our silence, and then one night would again live as husband and wife. Shelagh was a good wife, and would be sure to accept my occasional attentions.

Suddenly angry, I reached for the scarf and shoved it in my pocket, out of sight. My next call was waiting.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning soon became afternoon, without a break from the steady stream of home visits. I ate my lunch in the car, as was my habit. Early in my marriage to Shelagh I tried to stop at home for my midday break, but I soon found that the demands were too great on my time. If there were any hopes of being at the dinner table of an evening, I would have to push through the day. This past week, I hadn't been home for dinner once.

My practice could easily take up all of my time, and I could feel myself sliding back into the long hours I worked in the past. I knew how to be Dr. Turner. I could heal the sick, or at the very least could offer comfort. I knew my path.

When I first came to Poplar, no one asked any questions. The smoke still lingered from the war, and there were wounds that needed immediate attention. I threw myself into the work with a vigor I thought long gone. There was no looking back, the way was forward.

I met Margaret during this time. More than one date was cancelled at the last minute, but she always seemed to understand. Even during our marriage, she would refer to my practice "the other woman." There was an easy way about her that I found soothing.

My throat tightened guiltily at the thought of her. Had she realized how much I had kept from her? From the beginning, there had been a tacit understanding between us not to discuss the war. I knew as little about her past as she knew of mine, and neither questioned it. An idea began to niggle at my mind. Why were we content to settle for only part of each other?

"Last one," I promised myself as I a lit another cigarette. I inhaled deeply and glanced about the car. My flask of tea stood empty on the dash next to an uneaten sandwich. The full ashtray gave testament to how I had spent this break. I'd have to empty that before I went home. The last thing I needed was for Shelagh to see how much I'd been smoking lately. Trapping the cigarette between my lips, I climbed out of the car and made my way up the stairs to my next call.

The flat had the well-scrubbed look of better times gone by but not forgotten. Sunlight gleamed through the clear glass windows, brightening the furniture veneers polished thin. A vase of fresh flowers called from the corner by the window.

A cheerful spot, at first glance. But there, in the back of the flat, the dark corridor seemed to pinch away at the hard-earned cheerfulness of the public rooms.

I squatted beside the threadbare sofa and peered into my patient's throat. "I must say, Mrs. Babbish, young Billy seems to have passed through his bout of measles quite nicely. He's past the point of danger, and this rash is well on it's way to fading." I tousled the young boy's head, smiling at him. "You think you can take it easy if I let you go out to play tomorrow?" I asked him.

The boy's cheer filled the space. I laughed, glad to be able to give good news.

"Hush, Billy," his mother warned, her lips tight. Her eyes flashed towards a closed door down the hall. "You'll wake your father."

I could feel an instant tension bloom in the room. My eyes followed hers to that door.

The doorknob rattled, then the door opened to reveal William Babbish. I knew him to be a well dressed, supercilious man on the streets of Poplar. The man before me pressed against the door frame, his clothes rumpled from the bed. He cleared his throat with a rough, phlegmy sound and growled, "I asked for quiet!" The bloated face, once handsome, reddened in warning.

I drew his attention to me. "Your son's recovered nicely, Mr. Babbish," I told him cheerfully. "Right as rain in no time."

Babbish noticed me in the room for the first time, and turned in my direction. He stood taller, and walked towards me with a slow, practiced stride. The anger evaporated as he focussed his eyes on me.

"Doctor." His greeting was formal, and when he reached out his hand I saw the alcoholic tremor shake his arm.

"Your wife's done an excellent job of managing things."

The man stood with a studied balance and nodded, his eyelids heavy. "Thanks to you, too, Doctor." His tongue slogged through the words.

"William, dear, I've put the kettle on. You go back and lay down, it's been such a long day for you. I'll bring a cup in for you in two ticks." Mrs. Babbish's nervous laughter set my hackles up. Her young son didn't make a sound.

Babbish moved as if underwater. He took a deep, chest-expanding breath and nodded a farewell, then let his wife lead him back down the darkened hallway.

I took the moment to pack up my case, giving them the illusion of privacy. Murmured voices, the rattle and click of the doorknob, and she returned. The tight look about her lips was gone, replaced by a cordial, if distracted, smile.

"Tea'll be ready in a minute, Dr. Turner. Billy, why don't you finish that puzzle you've started?" Her hands smoothed back her tidy chignon.

The rapid change in mood revealed more than any long consultation. Today was simply part of a long parade of days driven by William Babbish's alcoholism. His wife began to chatter, filling up the air so there was no room for questions. Her son was on the mend and she had no need for my medical expertise. As long as the bedroom door remained shut, Mrs. Babbish could pretend their life was normal.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Babbish," I answered. Time spent over tea would be wasted. Any help I could offer would be rebuffed. I would have to wait and let this drama play out.

After the tense brightness of the Babbish home, the dark stairwell offered me a moment of privacy. I lit up another cigarette and leant back against the tiled wall. My headache was drifting down to my shoulders, coiling in knots of tension. To ease the pain, I stretched my neck, trying to work the strain from my muscles. Shelagh's small hands always knew how to relieve the tightness there.

The pressure intensified between my eyes, and my fingers moved to pinch the bridge of my nose. I couldn't ask Shelagh for help. My throat tightened and the image of her face this morning got past my guard. Bloody hell, I made a mess of things.

For some unfathomable reason, she chose me, left the life of service to God to be my wife. Despite the many reasons not to, she promised herself to me for always. Now she knew how damaged I was, Shelagh would stand by those promises. I would go home tonight, and every night, and she would be there. She would care for me, help raise my son, be my partner in old age.

Shame broke through the cracks in my guard. Those buried months pushed at me, looking for light. I pushed back. I'd manage things, I knew I would. Just as before. Soon, I could put this behind me. Shelagh and I would find a way to be.

There was no solace in that knowledge. We would manage, but I knew I would remember the wonder I had let slip through my fingers.

I crushed my cigarette into the concrete floor and went back to work.


	3. Chapter 3

My calls were finished well before tea time, but rather than heading home, I returned to the surgery to complete my notes. Reverting to old habits this week, I claimed it made more sense to keep all the files in the surgery, but even to my own ears the argument sounded feeble.

Excuses depleted, it was time to head home. I shrugged my shoulders into my coat and patted my pockets for my keys. My hand found its way to my breast pocket again, and I felt the silk of Shelagh's scarf cool against my fingers.

Her face appeared before me as it was this morning before I left, the same combination of anguish and bitterness that made me turn away; that very same combination I had seen after that disastrous interview. It hurt to breathe suddenly.

Shelagh had what she wanted now, the Agency's approval assured that. From the very start, there was a baby between us, and today's letter would finally make that dream a reality. Despite my blunders, the adoption agency approved us as parents. I wanted to feel relief, but couldn't.

The shrill ring of the telephone brought me back to the present and I picked up the receiver.

Peter Noakes was never one for hyperbole, but his strained response to my questions over the phone made it plain the situation was urgent. Guilty in my eagerness to avoid home, I rushed to the aid of Lady Browne.

A brief examination confirmed my suspicions. The only remaining care we could offer was palliative. Morphine would help ease my patient through the worst of the pain, but I could offer no relief for the uneasiness and tension that filled the room.

Nurse Noakes was never one to fade into the background. Her personality, even more than her size, made others notice her. Curiously, in her own sitting room, she seemed to shrink. Aside from an overly-cheerful greeting, she had little to say as I examined her mother.

Lady Browne's illness did nothing to diminish the force of her own personality, however. She reminded me of some career officers from my Medical Corp days, autocratic and cold, but there was an added layer of bitterness that hinted at deep discontent. She would hold the ramparts against her disease, but at great cost.

As Nurse Noakes fled the sitting room to see to the routine tasks of preparing the sickroom, it seemed obvious that she felt the cause of her mother's disappointments. I knew enough of the family's past to be concerned that these last days could be more than they could handle.

Peter Noakes stood in the doorway, his face lined with concern. He turned to Nurse Lee and opened his arms to his son. "I'll have him, then." The toddler quickly settled in his father's arms. "Cup of tea, Doctor?" He gestured towards the kitchen.

I nodded back. "Yes. Thank you." I lifted my case and followed him to the back of the house.

The police sergeant moved about the warm room, the child in the playpen never far from his attention. He had an ease with the child I admired. Peter Noakes was no stranger to the day-to-day care of his son.

I wondered if I felt a bit of envy, as well. Timothy was born almost precisely the same time as the NHS, and while I had Margaret to tend to my family at home, I was on my own with the new healthcare system. Rather than witness my son's milestones, I learned of them late at night, or sometimes over the telephone lines. Another regret.

I cleared my throat. "I'd have thought your mother-in-law would be in private hospital. Are there any circumstances I should be aware of concerning Lady Browne's care?"

Steam rose from the kettle as Sgt Noakes filled the teapot. He sighed heavily, as if he were choosing his words carefully. Finally, he answered. "Lady Browne and Sir Arthur have...gone their separate ways, and I'm afraid it's left her a bit skint at the moment." He carried the teatray to the table. "She was on her way to leaving our home when she had this attack. If she'd been anywhere else, I'm sure she'd have kept it from us."

Freddie pulled himself up to stand in his playpen and squawked in time to his bounce. His father smiled at him, and passed a biscuit to the outstretched hand. "Don't tell Camilla," he confided. "She doesn't like him to have sweets, but the poor little man can't help it. He's got his dad's sweet tooth."

A smile tugged at my mouth. "With Timothy and me it's cheese. Shelagh says we should have been mice."

Sergeant Noakes chuckled."Nice to be taken care of though, isn't it?" His face grew grave. "To tell you the truth, Doctor, it's Camilla I'm most worried about. She and her mother have never been close-well, that's an understatement. Boarding schools and yearly visits-my wife's got a tender heart, Doctor Turner. She pretends it doesn't bother her, but it does. And now Lady Browne's so ill, I'm afraid Camilla's heart will break."

My eyes stayed on my teacup. Peter Noakes needed a listener right now, not my advice.

"Lady Browne is so committed to her own dignity, she won't even discuss what's right in front of her. A good row, that's what they need. Instead, Camilla's family let it all fester. And now it's too late to fix it. Camilla will watch her mother die and never be able to say the things she needs to, or hear the things she needs to hear." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Such a waste. I know they love each other, but the walls are too thick."

Young Freddie tossed a cloth lion from his playpen and his father stooped to pick it up. His hand caressed the fine dark hair on the boy's head. "I can't imagine turning away from this little fellow, not in a million lifetimes. He's brought us more joy than we ever imagined."

At that moment the man turned his face away from me. Perhaps to disguise his emotions, he reached down to his son and lifted him into his arms. "How 'bout a hug for your old man, then, hey?"

I was suddenly desperate to get away. I stood and announced, "I'm off then, Sergeant. Nurse Lee will know exactly what to do, but if you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to call me." I made for the kitchen doorway and turned back. "I'm really very sorry, Peter. Shelagh and I…"  
I couldn't finish, but he understood. He reached out and clasped my outstretched hand.

*"From the very start, there was a baby between us"-this line is taken from a quote by Stephen McGann in series 3 promotional materials.


	4. Chapter 4

I needed space. I drove without thinking, passing through the darkening streets. The stonework of the city slowly began to give way to greener spaces, and soon I found myself on a long, quiet stretch of road.

The steady hum of the engine eased my mind into a blank space. All thoughts from the long day receded and I focussed on the grey asphalt before me, the harvested fields along the road. The tight coil of tension I felt in my entire body began to ease into a dull ache. After a few more miles, I pulled over to the side of the road. I inhaled one last drag from my cigarette before I climbed from the car and began to walk.

Exercise. That's what I needed. I'd been too cooped up on the narrow confines of the city for too long. I needed to fill my lungs with the sharp cool air of the countryside; to stretch my legs and feel my heart pump firmly in my chest. I needed time to be away from all the demands.

Long strides took me down the road, the sound of my shoes clicking on the hard surface a sort of white noise that filled my head. Before long, I came to a crossroads. I turned and looked back. The car was too far back for me to see in the gloaming, even along the straight road. I knew it was there, waiting for me. But if I kept walking on, would I lose it?

I hesitated. The road sign indicated villages in either direction, not so very far off. I wasn't likely to entirely lose my way. I lit another cigarette and pulled the smoke deep into my lungs.

Deliberately, I reached into my pocket and pulled out Shelagh's scarf. The smooth silk seemed almost fluid in my hand; solid, but almost intangible at the same time. I loved Shelagh in blue. Not for the first time, I chuckled to myself about that. Would I feel the same about the color if the habits worn by the Nonnatuns were another color?

An image came to my mind, blocking the ardent feelings the scarf conjured: Shelagh's face, stunned into a sharp anger as she rounded on me after that horrible interview. I could hear her voice, accusing me, blaming me for destroying her dreams.

But we'd been approved, after all. Why, then, had she looked at me with such pained confusion this morning? She was getting what she wanted. My mind turned away from the thought, only to hear her words again.

" _How can you treat others when you so clearly cannot treat yourself."*_

My eyes closed tightly to block the image. Where had that come from? Shelagh knew me, better than anyone. Did she now doubt even my medical abilities?

She was wrong. I was a good doctor. I wasn't perfect, but I knew that much. I hadn't fallen into the traps so many other medical men had succumbed to. I wasn't arrogant, or cynical, or indifferent. I could care for my patients without regard to my own troubles.

So what if I preferred to keep parts of my life in separate little compartments? Bringing up the pain from the past would do no good, and would indeed keep me from doing good. We had been happy until this matter. During the trials of Timothy's polio and Shelagh's own struggles, I was there, strong and supportive, and I had helped.

Even now, in the midst of this mess, I worked to improve lives, to lessen pain. How could Shelagh expect me to care for my patients if I were focussed on our problems? My mind filtered through the people I had helped through the years of pain. For God's sake, hadn't I found a way through the agonies of the war to help the people of Poplar? How did Shelagh think I managed to get through the pain of Margaret's death?

But her words kept going through my head. " _Treat yourself._ " No. Shelagh was wrong. The past was best left just there. Dwelling on it would only make things worse. My way was better. My way was the only way.

I rolled my shoulders, set on my course. I would continue as I was. Shelagh would grow to understand, and our life together could resume its course. I turned back towards the car.

There was still work to be done before I went home. My notes for Lady Browne were yet to be completed, and the list for tomorrow's nursing calls needed adjusting. I didn't envy the workload the Nonnatuns would face with the added burden of the loss of Chummy.

My feet halted in their progress. Nonnatus would send a rotation of nurses for the woman's care. Would Nurse Noakes remain with her mother or would she go out on her own calls? Was I wrong to assume Chummy would remain home to assist in her mother's care?

My throat tightened. During Margaret's illness, I worked long hours away from home. Poplar's population was booming, and fewer doctors were coming to the area. My practice consumed nearly as much of my attention as it had in those early days of the National Health Service.

Just as in the early days of our marriage, when the scars from the war were still fresh, Margaret and I tacitly agreed to concentrate on the present during her illness. We were of a like mind that way. Neither of us wanted to allow the pain to surface. Margaret filled her last days with time with Timothy, whilst I centered my attention on my patients.

"Hell's teeth." The quiet exclamation escaped my lips as the full impact of the thought hit me. Every time life became unbearable, I used work as an escape. I wondered now if perhaps I chose to start my post-war practice in Poplar for this very reason. In the East End, I could keep my secrets in the dark. In the East End, I could pretend my past did not exist.

My hands opened, and the silk began to slip through my fingers. With a convulsive clench, I caught the scarf and brought it to my face. "Shelagh," I whispered.

From the moment Shelagh picked up the telephone and called me from the Sanatorium, she had been brave, honest and completely committed to our life together. There was a fierceness to her love, a depth I never knew in my partitioned life. Perhaps it was her faith, perhaps her own openness, but Shelagh had brought such wonder to my life. Was I willing to let that disappear? At the very least, I owed her my complete trust.

Shelagh's love had opened up parts of my heart I had never known existed, and I rejoiced in it. I was a fool to think I could be content with anything less.

I felt the burden lift from my shoulders as I accepted my course. Shelagh knew me, flaws and all, and loved me still. She would help me tear down the walls I had built up separating myself, and we would be stronger for it. My steps quickened as I grew more impatient to get back to my wife.

We had work to do.

*Line taken from dialogue in Call the Midwife, S3E8.


End file.
